Talking points: Guess who's coming to dinner?

By Robert Philip

5:20PM GMT 28 Dec 2001

I WAS invited to a candlelit supper on Boxing Day towards the end of which the hostess asked her guests to nominate the five people - alive or dead - they imagined would comprise the "ideal dinner party". (Apparently, like Trivial Pursuit before it, this post-prandial diversion has been all the rage in smart salons across the land during the festive season).

Whereas I, in a state of blissful rapture, jotted down Kylie, Kylie, Kylie, Kylie and Kylie on my napkin, this fantasy game developed into a war of words among the others round the table over the respective merits of Hegel or Heidegger. "Don't get me started on Heidegger [who the hell he?]," pronounced I, pushing back my chair and joining the children in the other room where Donald Duck was belting out Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? through the quadrasound speakers.

The following night, finding myself in the company of a group of like-minded intellectuals in the Swan Inn, I raised the tone of the conversation by posing the same question, only this time substituting sports personalities for German philosophers (yes, I looked them up in the encyclopaedia ). Big Cecil, who will be captain of our Olympic drinking squad should alcohol consumption ever gain the approval of the International Olympic Committee, plumped for George Best, Ian Botham, Ian Woosnam, Jake `Raging Bull' LaMotta and Babe Ruth, free spirits all, while his brother, Duncan, who, flying in the face of all reason blithely imagines he, and not Robbie Williams, will be the next James Bond, chose Anna Kournikova, Sharron Davies, Gabriela Sabatini, Nellie Kim and Virginia Leng.

In the hope of nurturing good-natured debate in pubs and clubs over the New Year celebrations, my votes went as follows:

Muhammad Ali: For his humanity, humour and poetry-reading. Like The Beatles, it is nigh-on impossible to explain to those who did not live through the "Ali years" how a black boxer from Louisville, Kentucky came to be the most famous man on Earth. As someone privileged enough to have interviewed The Greatest, to this day whenever Ali walks into a room you just know you are in the presence of a truly remarkable human being.

Bill Tilden: Many are they who believe him to be the greatest tennis player of all time; Rod Laver, Lew Hoad or `Big' Bill, you pays your money and takes your pick. Such was his glamorous allure, Hollywood screen siren Tallulah Bankhead would sit in the front row of the Centre Court gently brushing her cheek with a red rose while gazing longingly upon the object of her affections. Her attempted seductions came to nowt; Tilden was a homosexual who died alone and penniless.

Nadia Comaneci: Used and abused by the Ceausescus; as a human propaganda machine by the father, as a sexual plaything by the son. Behind Comaneci's public smile lay a soul in torment. She has now found peace and happiness in the United States where she is growing into fragrant middle age.

Walter Hagen: Winner of 11 golf majors including four Open championships, The Haig was the ultimate bon vivant; as one contemporary explained: "Walter is not a religious man. If I ever wanted to go looking for him I wouldn't start with a church. I have an idea he's broken 11 of the Ten Commandments."

Yogi Berra: New York Yankees' catcher and - consciously or unconsciously, we will never know - the funniest man to grace any sport. The book of `Yogi-isms' is long and well-documented. New Yorker magazine said of him: "Nobody would quarrel with the assertion that Winston Churchill has been replaced by Yogi Berra as the favourite source of quotations." My personal favourite concerns Yogi's refusal to accompany his Yankees' team-mates to a popular New York watering-hole: "Aw, no-one goes there anymore - it's too crowded."

That's it, folks, my table is now full. Kylie? Well, she'll just have to sit on my knee.

AND the meek shall inherit the earth - if that's alright with everyone. . .

There is no sign of the meek inheriting the Premiership where all the traditional major powers are congregating at the top: Newcastle, Arsenal, Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester United.

Whereas the others have all won the championship in recent times, it comes as something of a surprise to be reminded of the fact that the last occasion the league-leading Magpies won the title (1927), Cardiff City were FA Cup winners, Stanley Baldwin was Prime Minister and Gene Tunney was heavyweight boxing champion of the world. Good heavens, Bruce Forsyth (22/2/28) wasn't even born.

As a complete neutral, nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing Newcastle crowned champions come May for two reasons; the fans at St James' have long been one of the most passionate and welcoming band of supporters in Britain, plus it would represent a fitting climax to the managerial career of Bobby Robson who came so close with his marvellous Ipswich Town side of the 1980s.

Only Graham Taylor had to endure more Fleet Street vilification than the eminently likeable Robson as England manager when the Daily Mirror, in particular, took it upon itself to become the voice of the nation. In The Name of God, Go! it thundered during a particularly torrid time in 1988, swiftly followed by In The Name Of Allah, Go! after England's 1-1 draw with Saudi Arabia. Robson did go, eventually, to enjoy great success with PSV Eindhoven, Porto and Barcelona before returning to his beloved North-East.

At a time when footballers and alcohol appear to walk hand in hand like trouble and strife, Robson, wise old owl that he is, was one of the first to spot the dangers two decades ago when he warned: "George Best wasn't the first - and won't be the last - to be ruined by drink. I see booze as one of the major growing evils of the game. And its influence will become more widespread now there is such big money to be earned. In my day it was a half of lager, today they're drinking spirits."

Robson is not against drink when the time and place are right and you can bet St James' Park will be awash in champagne come May if Newcastle finally win the title which has eluded them for 75 long years.

IF YOU are up and about at 11.30am on New Year's Day - I will still be nestling under the duvet with a cocktail of pain-killers, Fernet Branca and prairie oysters to hand in the vain hope of conquering the famous Philip Hogmanay hangover - may I recommend you tune your wireless/transistor/whatever to Radio 4 for Playing A Blinder.

This is the fictional account of the Hibs-Hearts Edinburgh derby of Jan 1, 1940 as "seen" through the eyes of the football commentator of the day, Bob Kingsley. With the Easter Road stadium shrouded in a good, old-fashioned pea-souper, on any normal afternoon, the referee would have had no hesitation in cancelling the fixture.

This being wartime, however, soccer matches continued as normal with radio stations under strict instructions not to mention the weather for fear of hastening an attack by the Germans. And so, with the Forth Railway Bridge near the top of the enemy's "hit-list", Kingsley had to go about his work as though nothing was untoward. "If you can't see what's happening - make it up," he was told.

As script-writer Andrew Dallmeyer explains: "There is some uncertainty about exactly how many were in the crowd or even the identity of the teams as some of the players were called away to active duty at the last minute. There is no record of the match on tape so I had to imagine how it might have sounded.

"I took the approach that Bob Kingsley would have begun his commentary raw and floundering. But as the match progressed, so he would become ever more confident, describing flowing moves and great saves as he became carried away with the fantasy of it all."

The official records show Hearts won a thriller 6-5 but as the Hibs' winger Jock Donaldson was found wandering around the pitch looking for the action a full 10 minutes after the final whistle, who's to know?